


The Impossible

by rilakumabear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Were-cat Anthea, Were-cat Mycroft, Werewolf Sherlock, tags to be updated accordingly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 13:26:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2311244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rilakumabear/pseuds/rilakumabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. <i></i></i>
</p><p>With every full moon, Sherlock risks turning into his wolf form permanently- dangerous, aggressive and under the full control of his primal desires. The only option to prevent this is to find a mate to share his life with. But with his sworn enemy Moriarty as the only candidate, can Sherlock find himself the right person before his transformation is irreversible?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Impossible

“You’re going to love this one, Sherlock,” Lestrade says as he leads the consulting detective and John to the crime scene. Inwardly, John doesn’t know whether to rejoice or groan. A puzzling crime would keep Sherlock’s mind running, but it also meant that John would have to keep an extra eye making sure the other man remembers to eat or sleep. Still, it’s been a while since Sherlock had a more complex case to solve, so it was probably for the best.

“Female, mid to late twenties,” Lestrade continues. “Found by a woman taking her dog for a walk. Anderson’s still processing the scene.”

“Anderson,” Sherlock repeats, sounding irritated. John flashes him a warning glance. _Behave._ With a sigh, Sherlock tightens his scarf and ducks into the undergrowth beside the riverbank. A popular path for local residents, the river was usually a picture perfect sight in the warmer seasons. But it’s late November now, and the land is dry and cold. It looks ill, John thinks.

By the time he tears his eyes away from the river and back to the crime scene, Sherlock is already crouched over the body of the victim. Her long brown hair fans out around her face, tangled with small twigs and leaves. Her neck is twisted at a strange angle, and John sighs, sadly.

“Any sign of sexual assault?” he asks. Lestrade shakes his head.

“Her clothing seems to be untouched, more or less. The only tears seem to be from where she ran through the woods.” He gestures back towards the trees, and John can spot the path of broken branches and scuffed mud where the girl must have run from her attacker.

“So there must be footprints of the murderer,” Sherlock says, not bothering to look up. “Scotland Yard has reached a new low, if you can’t even work that out! Maybe some hair caught in a branch, or-”

“Nothing,” Lestrade interrupts, sounding irritated. Sherlock and John look at him. “Nothing,” Lestrade repeats. “Not a single footprint, other than hers, no sign of anyone else. But she was definitely alive before she ended up in the ditch. You can’t run with a broken neck.”

“That’s impossible,” John frowns, staring at the softening mud under his shoes. Sherlock says nothing, and John’s certain that his mind is occupied by thousands of thoughts and narrowing down the possibilities.

“Nothing but the footprints of the dog of the lady who called it in,” Lestrade says. “Unless her murderer was a flying squirrel.”

John nods his thanks to Lestrade, who moves to speak with another colleague. Left alone, John crouches down beside Sherlock. “Any ideas?”

“Several,” Sherlock replies, eyes bright.

“Any you can share with me?” John asks drily, long accustomed to his flatmates’ train of thought.

Sherlock points at the path of destroyed branches. “Look at that, John,” he says. “Anyone can see she ran through there. And the snapped branches point this way, so of course she ran towards this direction, towards the main footpath beside the river, yes?”

“Right,” John nods. “But there should be some sign of her attacker. Maybe the forensics team just haven’t anything yet.”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock says, straightening up. “The most probable scenario suggests she was running from a human. If someone was chasing her, they would have left the same amount of evidence as the victim did.”

“But with no signs of any other living thing?” John shakes his head. “This is weird.”

“She wasn’t the only one around,” Sherlock corrects him.

“What do you mean? Lestrade just said-”

“There was the girl and…?”

John blinks. “What, the dog?” He scoffs. But Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “You can’t be serious?”

“No other sign of another _human_ ,” Sherlock reminds him. “Footprints of a dog, though.”

“You think she was running away from the dog?” John asks, sceptical.

“Plenty of people are afraid of animals.”

“And then what? The dog snapped her neck?” John crosses his arms. “Maybe she fell and broke her neck.” But even as the words are out of his mouth, John can see the bruises around her neck; the deep purple outline of human hands. He stares back at the muddy path, the victim’s footprints and the footprints of the dog.

“Let’s talk to the lady who found her,” Sherlock stands, adjusting his scarf. John casts a last look at the victim before following him.

The woman looks around her late forties, but could be older. She’s healthy looking with clear skin, and even under her warm coat, she looks slim and toned. Donovan casts them an irritated glance, but allows Sherlock a minute to speak.

“You’re the one who found the body, yes?” Sherlock asks without preamble.

The lady nods. “Yes. I’m sorry, but I’ve already spoken to the police officer-”

“I prefer to conduct my own interviews,” Sherlock interrupts. John flashes an apologetic smile at her, taking out his notebook and pen.

“I’m sorry, Ms-?”

“Elizabeth Thornton, like the chocolate manufacturer,” she smiles.

“Ms Thornton. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I was walking my dog Theodore this morning,” Thornton begins. “He’s quite an energetic beast, so I usually let him off the leash when there aren’t too many people around. Normally he likes to run off into the open space, but today he wouldn’t leave the woods beside the river, even when I called for him. So finally I stepped through and discovered that poor girl.” She covers her mouth, eyes tearing. “I should have called the police sooner, but I was just frozen.”

“It’s alright,” John says soothingly. “You did the right thing.”

“Yes, well,” Elizabeth sniffs, pulling out a handkerchief to dab delicately at her eyes. “I just hope you manage to catch whoever did this.”

“We’ll do our best,” John tucks his notebook back into his pocket. “Sherlock?”

“Ms Thornton, where is your dog?” the consulting detective asks. Elizabeth turns, glancing around.

“Theodore!” She calls. “I’m sorry, he must have run off again. Technically, we didn’t finish the walk.”

There’s a rustle from the trees to the side, and suddenly, a giant Saint Bernard is leaping from the woods, tail wagging and saliva dripping from its jowls. John instinctively takes a step back. With a well-put together woman such as Elizabeth Thornton, her image suited a much smaller dog, like a fluffy Pomeranian or a Chihuahua. Instead, Theodore bounds towards them, sniffing and licking at their hands.

“You weren’t lying when you said beast,” John laughs, petting the dog’s head. Theodore barks happily, leaping up to lick at Sherlock’s face. For a second, Sherlock looks utterly stunned, and it makes John burst out laughing at his comical reaction. He knew for a fact Sherlock wasn’t scared of animals, but he still preferred to see them from a distance, unless it was for a case.

“John, what breed is this?”

“He’s a Saint Bernard,” Elizabeth smiles, pulling the dog away. “His father and grandfather were best in breed, you know.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmurs. He grasps the dog by its front paws and pushes him away. John glances at him.

“Interesting?” he repeats, but Sherlock is already stalking away. He hurries a goodbye to the bemused-looking Elizabeth, then catches up with Sherlock.

“So? What now?”

“So nothing,” Sherlock strides up to Lestrade. “Leave the case. Mycroft will transfer it to a new department, or shut it down completely.”

“Wait, what?” John asks, stopping in his tracks.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” Lestrade demands. “I can’t just leave the case.”

“Mycroft will close it anyway,” Sherlock shrugs. “There’s nothing to solve.”

“A girl’s been murdered!” John snaps. “And we haven’t even identified her yet; we owe it to her and her family to find out who did this.”

Sherlock flicks a glance towards the woods, back towards the victim. “Trust me, John, there’s nothing more we can do.”

“I need answers, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “You can’t expect me to shut down a case for no reason.”

“Do whatever you want,” Sherlock replies dismissively. “As I said, Mycroft will close it anyway. Let’s go, John.”

John exchanges a confused glance with Lestrade, before catching up to Sherlock. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

“John, for heaven’s sake,” Sherlock sounds exasperated. “There’s nothing to solve. We’ll move onto the next case; disappearing buses in Croydon, I think you mentioned?”

“Something like that,” John mutters, dissatisfied. Still, it’s not the first time Sherlock’s left him in the dark about something, so he decides to wait it out for the other man to explain.

Except an explanation never comes. They solve the case in Croydon- a simple case of a bored teenager changing the bus timetables- and several more over the week. John waits, but Sherlock seems to have erased the case from his mind.

Frustrated, John finds himself at Lestrade’s office when Sherlock’s paying a visit to  the morgue in St Bart’s, probably deciding which body parts to store in their fridge once again.

“I can’t get that girl’s face out of my mind,” he admits to the detective inspector, as they nurse mugs of poor coffee. “It just doesn’t make sense that Sherlock didn’t seem to want to solve it. He normally loves a puzzle like that.”

“Yeah, I was surprised as well,” Lestrade frowns. “But there’s nothing we can do, John. Like Sherlock said, Mycroft closed the case. We never even found out the name of the victim.”

He takes a sip, grimacing, whether from the coffee or the conversation, John isn’t sure.

“I don’t suppose you still have any files left?” John asks, hopeful.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow. “Why, you’re thinking of solving this one yourself?”

John shrugs. “I don’t know. But I can try.”

Lestrade sits back, thinking. “All the evidence and records we made have been taken,” he says. “But I can give you my own notes. There isn’t a lot, though.”

He rummages through a drawer, bringing out a small black leather-bound notebook and rifling through the pages. When he finds his notes from the case, Lestrade carefully rips them out and passes them to John.

“Ta,” John gives them a quick glance before tucking them into his pocket.

“Be careful, John,” Lestrade warns him. “I’m telling you this as a friend. It’s not usual for Mycroft to personally ensure a case is closed for no apparent reason.”

“I know,” John nods. “But I want to try.”

“You know I won’t be able to help you,” Lestrade begins apologetically. But John waves him off, knowing the other man, though honest and just, was tied by the bureaucracy of his job.

“Greg, it’s fine. Just keep this between the two of us,” John stands to leave, shaking Lestrade’s hand. “I’ll see you.”

Breathing in the crisp autumn air outside, John takes a moment to steady himself. For a moment, he wonders if he’s doing the right thing. After all, if Mycroft had personally seen the closure of the case, then there was no doubt something else was going on. Something that Sherlock seemed at least vaguely aware of, enough to know that they should step away. But he hadn’t shown any signs of wanting to explain or at least mention the case- it was as if it had never happened. John wasn’t as good at deductions as the Holmes brothers, but even he had to acknowledge the suspicious circumstances. One part of him debates whether or not to just leave the case as Mycroft and Sherlock would obviously prefer, but…

John rubs at his temples, eyes closed for a moment. Instantly, he recalls the victim, her fanned out hair, her neck jutting out at a fatal angle. And in that moment, he knew he couldn’t leave it.

Perhaps Mycroft would catch on, perhaps Sherlock would be furious, but John doesn’t care. He thinks again of the nameless victim, lying alone in the cold mud, and sets off, heart resolute.

*

On the floor outside Mycroft’s office is a lobby-cum-reception area that’s usually manned by Anthea. Today, instead, there is a large cat, as big as a lioness, with a rich brown coat and golden eyes. She pauses from licking her paw as Sherlock enters.

“Oh, don’t pretend to be surprised,” he tells her. “You smelt me coming as soon as I stepped into the corridor.”

The cat almost seems to smirk. She finishes swiping her paw over her face, then leaps forward, body shimmering and merging until it shrinks then extends upwards in her human form.

“Mycroft thought it’d take longer for you to see him,” Anthea grins, reaching for the phone on her desk to buzz him through. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock scowls at the title, not bothering to reply as he enters his brother’s office. Whilst Mycroft’s human form is slim and tall, his cat form is huge, far bigger than Anthea’s sleek cat. His coat is a glossy dark brown, almost black, and he lounges in front of an open fire, dark eyes glittering as he spots his sibling.

“I hope the lazing around is worth the diet,” Sherlock snipes, sinking into an armchair beside him and pulling off his coat and scarf. Mycroft flashes his teeth briefly, then transforms back into a human, rising up onto the adjacent chair with elegance.

“It’s lovely to see you, too, brother dear,” he remarks drily. He straightens his tie, then reaches for a nearby tea-tray, pouring into two cups. “How did John react?”

Sherlock pauses for a moment, thinking back to the moment when he’d announced the end of the case. “Not well, I suppose.”

“I thought as much,” Mycroft drops in two sugars, stirring carefully before he hands the cup over. “You must ensure he doesn’t follow up the case, Sherlock. We can’t have him find out about… our little world.”

“ _My_ world,” Sherlock growls. “You have nothing to do with it.”

“And yet here we are,” Mycroft says in an infuriatingly airy manner. “How long did it take you to find out?”

“The mud path only had the victim’s footprints and a set of paw prints,” Sherlock replies begrudgingly. “They weren’t clear, so logically, I considered a large dog of some kind, with the prints distorted by the mud. But the dog had smaller paws.”

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft sips his tea. “I saw the interview transcript. The lady who discovered the body- Thornton, was it? The police assumed the paw prints belonged to her dog.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock agrees. Though the stupidity of Scotland Yard often grated on him, this time it was a blessing. They couldn’t afford to expose any part of the true nature of the crime. “The girl, though,” Sherlock says after a pause. “Who was she?”

“Piper Gladwell,” Mycroft informs him. “She had offered herself as an omega, and backed out the last minute. You know he doesn’t take kindly to what he’d perceive as disloyalty.”

“And her family?”

“She has none,” Mycroft informs him. Sherlock sits back, unsure if his was a blessing or a curse. “Sherlock,” Mycroft begins, flicking him a glance. “Just give it some time to die down.”

“It’s unusual for him to be so clumsy,” Sherlock frowns. “He rarely leaves any evidence, let alone a corpse.”

“What makes you think it was an accident?” Mycroft points out.“It seems Moriarty is getting increasingly desperate for your attention, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scowls, hiding his expression as he sips his tea. “He knows my answer.”

“It’s foolish to think he cares about anything other than his own desires,” Mycroft tells him. “Moriarty won’t stop until you agree to become his mate. The longer this goes on, the more he will threaten to expose _your_ world.” He emphasises _your_ , mocking Sherlock’s earlier words.

“I know that,” Sherlock replies irritably. “I won’t let that happen.”

“You can be reassured of my assistance in any way possible, of course,” Mycroft informs him. “Although I confess I will never understand why you chose to live as a wolf. Life as a cat is so much simpler. The need to have a mate is a weakness, Sherlock.”

“Some of my kind see it as a strength,” Sherlock growls in response. Mycroft remains unfazed, putting down his teacup.

“Either way, just focus on ensuring John doesn’t find out.”

“Of course,” Sherlock bristles.

“He might put up with your peculiarities enough to share a flat together, but your true form would be too much for him,” Mycroft warns. “You remember Victor.”

Sherlock snarls, fighting to resist the temptation to turn. “I’m not a cub anymore!”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says coolly. “You’re a fully grown adult, as is the wolf inside you. It’s time you find a mate, brother mine. Otherwise-”

“I’m aware of the consequences,” Sherlock snaps. And how could he not be? Every month it became harder and harder to control his transformations, to ignore the primal urge to find a mate- _any_ mate. The growing compulsion became more dangerous as time went on. The drugs helped, but there was a limit to how much his human form could take without fatal consequences. No, his only option was to find a mate, but he would not choose Moriarty.

Time was running out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> I'm writing in between work shifts, so please expect probably long and sporadic updates between the chapters. Sorry ^_^"
> 
> You can find me on tumblr here: http://rilakumabear.tumblr.com/


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